


we're sick like animals, we play pretend

by mackdizzy



Series: Stanuary 2020 [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (but you get it), (its not ACTUALLY self-harm it's bill in ford's body), Depravity Falls, Ford has done some FUCKED UP SHIT, Graphic Violence, Possession, Pseudo Self-Harm, Self-Harm, i mean FUCKED UP, is it hurt-comfort?, its hurt-comfort at the end, mack plays with AUs, we gotta get there with plot first boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: you're just a cannibal, and i'm afraid I won't get out aliveno I won't sleep tonightStan Pines was not interested in another mystery. Stan Pines was also not interested in any further contact with his brother.  Stan Pines was not, however, about to get either of the things he wanted; not after 2 PM, mailtime, when a letter slid its way through the slot of his apartment door.[[STANUARY WEEK 3: AUS]
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Bill Cipher & Ford Pines (I wouldn't call it romantic but it's Something.), Fiddauthor is Implied but fidds isn't in it :(, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines (Non-Romantic)
Series: Stanuary 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008981
Comments: 26
Kudos: 74
Collections: Stanuary





	1. here we go again

**Author's Note:**

> oh. my god. oh. my god. ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. about a full week of work. twenty two drive pages. three chapters. 10k words. I am SO BEYOND EXCITED TO SHARE THIS WITH YOU, I have been wanting to write this for AGES UPON AGES. Absolutely no spoilers for what you're about to see, but please know I've been festering on it for far too long.
> 
> TW'S: this one's dark, boys. Possession, Pseudo-Self Harm (Bill in Ford's body), Graphic Violence, and ford doing really messed up shit in general.
> 
> SHIPPING: I would NOT tag this as Ciphord, but there is definitely a reverence/worship complex going on there, so....mild-pseudo-shipping, maybe? Past Fiddauthor is implied. No incest.
> 
> This story and any thoughts I have about it stem from @Whiterosella / @Shelle.cos and @Ciphord 's cosplay content on tiktok/instagram. Please do check them out; I sort of went off the intended handle and did totally my own thing with the AU, but I wanted to give credit to where the idea came from!!
> 
> [[AU is Depravity. Inspired by the people above. Fic and Chapter titles are Neon Trees' Animal]]  
> [Three chapters, in case you came really early and they're not up yet]

Stan Pines was not one for mysteries.

This had not always been the case. Once upon a time, Stanley Pines was one of a pair, and mystery had been their middle names. Stanley and Stanford Pines were the kings of New Jersey, and it seemed as if there was a new mystery every week for the two of them. But things changed. Things changed, mistakes were made, and Stanley Pines had currently not seen his brother in 17 years.

It had been a hard 17 years--that much was an understatement--and Stan, currently, was  _ not _ looking for any more mystery. For once in his life, he just wanted things to make sense for him. He wanted the pieces to fit together  _ for _ him. He wanted to stop scraping for answers like he scraped for food. He just wanted to stop being  _ confused _ by everything. By the nature of the world, by how cruel humans could be, by all the little ways things worked that he could never seem to figure out.

Stan Pines was  _ not _ interested in another mystery. Stan Pines was also  _ not  _ interested in any further contact with his brother; not like he shouldn’t, not like some tiny part of him past the grudges and anger didn’t  _ desperately  _ want to, he just...couldn’t. 

Stan Pines was not, however, about to get either of the things he wanted; not after 2 PM, mailtime, when a letter slid its way through the slot of his apartment door. 

It was a  _ neat _ letter, from the official US postal service. It didn’t have a sender’s address. He was worried there might be a bomb inside--a deadly poison trap--whatever. But if there was one thing Stan Pines had always had too much of, it was curiosity, so his fingers ripped open the seal and he pulled out two things.

One was a folded up note, with tidy but slightly messy handwriting on it. This he unfolded first, and read the following:

_ \---Hiya! Sorry, this got lost in the bottom of my bag AGES ago! It was supposed to be here a week ago. I hope you weren’t waiting on anything important! Let’s hope the blood isn’t too serious. _

_ \---Joe (your local mailman). _

The second envelope  _ inside  _ the envelope did indeed have blood on it--not so much it was unreadable, but a decent amount at the very least, splattered across it. This envelope  _ did _ have a return address; it was an address he didn’t recognize from a town he had never heard of in a state he had never been to. Gravity Falls, Oregon. This was perhaps a sign that he should throw the letter in the trash, but the bloodstains had only increased his curiosity, so this seam he ripped as well, and he barely noticed the way his hands shook as he withdrew the letter.

There were three words on the page. Three words, and a lot of blood.

**_Please Come._ **

**_\---Ford._ **

Ford. Not Stanford. Not Stanford Pines.  _ Ford. _ Also to note; messy handwriting. Not his brother at all. Stanford Pines wrote in tiny tiny letters that were perfectly spaced and so neat his dyslexia couldn't bear to focus on them. This was scribbled and sloppy and the letters were all different sizes; it looked like the time Ford had gotten too wrapped up in some equation to bother with his biology homework and had said to him,  _ You write, I'll talk _ , and the teacher had called them both down to see him after class and Ford had cried for 45 minutes about it.

Stan would’ve liked to say he thought on the letter for days and made a perfectly reasonable conclusion, but he didn’t. Stan stuffed the note in his pocket, grabbed the bag that was always ready-packed by the door, and hightailed it 16 hours north in a beat-up Sedan, the letter taped to the sun visor the whole way. He didn’t stop more than was  _ absolutely  _ necessary, and finally, his snow-covered car pulled into the driveway of an  _ incredibly  _ interesting house.

It looked structurally sound, sure, but it was the most  _ triangular  _ house he’d ever seen before. He hadn’t a single feeling why anyone would build a house like that, but leave it to his brother to move into one. He trudged through the snow to the front door, climbing the rickety porch steps and knocking three times.

No answer.

He ran a slim finger down the edge of the doorframe--he could feel bolts, two of them, and three separate locks. Jesus, Ford. Paranoid, much? He waited for an answer, knocking a few more times for good measure, and then sighed, shaking his head. He was going to need the lock picking get from his bag to get in. Despite the fact that he could break in most  _ normally  _ secured doors, Ford seemed to want to secure his house better than the US Mint, so out the kit came. 

It took him 45 minutes to even get inside, but once he did, he was met with quite the sight. Paper littered every available inch of the house, books were skewed left and right--there was ink and blood splattered on the floor, and a thick coating of dust in the air, so bad it made him cough. It seemed like nobody had been up here in weeks, or if so, they’d been seriously neglecting the place.

“Ford?” He called, walking through the house. He went into the kitchen, the first floor bathroom, the first floor bedroom, and upstairs to the loft, but nothing. The whole time, it felt like he was being  _ watched-- _ maybe he was, maybe it was his nerves, but it might’ve also been accredited to the fact that there were  _ eyes _ drawn in every corner of the house, on every wall, etched into every surface, in dust and glitter and ink and gold and blood. Eyes and triangles. He had no idea the cause of either, but whatever was happening in this house, it was starting to creep him out, and his brother was nowhere to be found.

Once or twice, he contemplated the fact that Ford might even be dead, but...no. He wouldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t  _ let _ himself think about that until he’d scanned the entire world for a different conclusion first, damnnit.

The world could wait. He started with the house, scraped it top to bottom for clues. Nothing. Right as he was about to go through a second round, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before, set into the wall of the living room.

Stairs. There was a basement.

He grabbed the flashlight off the wall immediately and shone it into the musty air below, taking the steps slowly, but with the sort of energy of someone who wanted to be to the bottom  _ very quickly. _

He never would’ve been ready for what he saw down there. 

First, a long hallway, metal floors, computers and other gear so high-tech he couldn’t recognize it on every wall. Screens, showing the house, and places he didn’t recognize. Mainframe technology, science equipment--this was the most  _ Ford-y _ place he’d seen so far, and seeing it filled him with a deep sense of comfort, like all hope was not lost. There was a small, dark brown door set into one of the walls, and he was about to go into it when he stopped completely short, rooted to the ground, because in front of him was a giant wall of plexiglass.

And behind the giant wall of plexiglass, there was an actual fucking  _ legit _ portal. 

He knew it was a portal immediately--that much was obvious. And he was pretty sure it was still  _ on.  _ Particles of paper and dust and blood swirled in the air in front of it, and he was too scared to go through the metal door that separated it from the rest of the basement. And in that instant, he had a terrible suspicion that he knew exactly where his brother was.

He didn’t jump to conclusions. He scanned every inch of that house for the next three days for any clues, sleeping in the loft away from the portal, digging through as much of his brother’s scienc-y stuff as he could get his hands on. He found nothing of any interest whatsoever. Half of it was in code, half of it was in English but in words too big and scienc-y for him to grasp at first glance, and a lot of it was scribbled out in ink--or in blood. 

It was three days of unsuccessful hunting later when he decided he had no choice, and he was going to see what was on the other side of that portal if it was going to  _ kill _ him. So he once more grabbed his always ready utility bag, slung it over his shoulder, loaded his pistol before slipping it into his belt, and entered the room behind the metal door. 

The portal’s energy was magnetic, and he was swept off his feet almost immediately. He flustered around in the air for a bit before deciding  _ To Hell with it,  _ and made sure his bag was on tight and his pistol was secure before letting the energy of the portal take him through to the other side. If he ended up without them, he’d be sort of screwed, but he’d been in stickier situations before. It was just a giant random portal in the basement of a house of a scientific genius possibly leading to space or somewhere worse, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Famous last words.


	2. i kinda wanna be more than friends, so take it easy on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get FUN, guys!

On the other side of the portal, he came—bag, gun, and all—into what looked like a  _ giant  _ backyard. The biggest, swankiest backyard he’d ever seen, protected by a black wrought iron fence that towered into the sky with barbed wire at the top. Over a row of hedges pointed like a picket fence a ways away, he could see a building rising into the sky--modern and hospitable enough to be some sort of giant mansion, but it was covered in towers and spires, like some sort of castle--it almost seemed to be a version of the very triangular house he’d come from with a 5 million dollar budget. It was the singular nicest house-manor-castle he’d ever seen, even if the color scheme was a bit creepy, all blacks offset by shades of gold. He figured there was nothing better to do than to approach, knock on the doors, and explain the situation; maybe it was a random placement sort of thing with the portals, and he hoped the people inside would be friendly. If not, he had weapons. He knew how to fight. 

Before he made it to the back doors, though, he had to pass through the largest garden he had ever seen in his life. Perfectly cut, perfectly green grass, fountains, hedges, white orchids and trellises of ivy. It truly was beautiful, and, as if the heavens had aligned for this one perfect moment, there was someone else in it, using a pair of hedge clippers on what looked to be roses made of real gold, but somehow alive.

It was his brother.

Or, at the very least, it was someone who looked like his brother. Same soft brown curls, same oversized browline glasses, same tiny cleft in his chin, same laugh lines, same six-fingered hands, same mousy brown eyes-- _ almost.  _ When he looked over at him, the sunlight caught something in his eyes, and they flashed with hints, speckles of gold, for only a second. Then, gone, but if you tilted your head the right way, they were still there.

Except--this  _ wasn’t _ his brother, in so many ways. Black robes, a shawl, and collar that made him look almost like  _ Catholic Priest, _ which was weird in so, so many ways he couldn’t even begin to fucking count them, overset with an incredibly luxurious cloak; black velvet, with white trim and a gold chain, gold satin on the inside and a train trailing into the grass behind him. A crown sat sideways in his curls, gold and black like everything else he was wearing. Most of all, what wasn’t his brother was the look on his face as he turned to face him; the gold flashing through his eyes, maybe, but also the raised eyebrows and the unnerving smile, almost psychotic.

“You’re trespassing.” He spoke, and yes, it was Ford’s voice. From somewhere within his robes he withdrew a dagger, small, black with tiny jewels in gold and red, and studied it like one of his science experiments back home. He held it up to the light and then horrifyingly, ran it along the palm of his hand. Blood ran down the side of his wrist and he looked at that, too, like he was studying it, smiling like it amused him, before pointing the blade straight Stan’s way. “I could kill you for that, you know.” He held up two fingers on his free hand. “Snap my fingers and you’d be gone. Would you be missed, out here? Would anybody remember you even existed?”

Stan didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to say. For a minute he just stared, dumbfounded, and Ford chuckled, putting the knife back. “I won’t, don’t worry.” He said, and Stan thought that was a good a time as any to get a word in, but instead of some live-saving quip that teleported them home away from this  _ mess _ immediately, all he could nudge in was a completely stammered--

“F-F-Ford?”

Ford faltered, then. He started at Stan blankly,  _ completely _ blankly, like he didn’t know his own name. It was like he’d shut his brother down like a machine--he just stared at him, expressionless, head tilted to the side, eyes glassy. It must’ve been at least a minute or two before Ford seemed to gasp a little, his shoulders twitching. For a minute, his eyes seemed browner.

“Stanley?”

Stan laughed, joyously. “Oh, thank Jesus. Thought you’d lost your mind for a minute there, Sixer--”

“Don’t call me Sixer.”

It was so sudden, so on-a-dime, so regal and prude, that Stan stopped short, eyebrows furrowed. “Geez--okay, sorry. I, uh.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. He almost felt self-conscious. Underdressed.  _ Something. _ It was a weird feeling. He felt like he was struggling to fit into a suit at one of Pa’s business dinners, not around  _ Ford. _ “I--got your letter?”

Ford’s eyebrows furrowed again, but he didn’t stay tranced like before. When he spoke, he sounded exasperated. “What  _ letter?” _

_ Is it?--Yes.  _ It was still in his pocket, and he withdrew it, handing it over. Ford looked at it like he had never seen it in his life, shaking his head blindly. “I don’t...remember writing this.” It’s a lot more  _ Ford _ like, soft and timid and meek once more; he wasn’t speaking like he owned the whole world anymore, and Stan was glad to hear it.

“Well--you signed it.” Stan said. “It’s your handwriting”, because he’d seen that handwriting all over the house, frenetic, scared, in words that were so obviously his brother’s.

“So it is.” Ford mused, and then he shoved it in his pocket, speaking under his breath. “I’ll talk to Him about it later.” 

“Er--him? Who’s him?”

Ford looked up, and then he smiles. It was a proud smile, like the time he’d announced to their class that Niles Eldridge had read his senior thesis (not like he knew who that was, then or now). “Oh. Bill.”

A first name was all he got until he tilted his head and looked at Ford, confusion in his expression, like,  _ Bill who? _ And Ford looked absolutely  _ shocked _ at that notion, like  _ Bill  _ was just a name like  _ Madonna,  _ like there weren’t 80 thousand  _ Bill’s _ in the world--but there were, so he shook his head further, and it’s with the same shock that Ford clarified. “Bill Cipher.”

Stan shook his head further. “...Nope. Not ringin’ any bells. Who’s Bill Cipher?”

“You’re kidding.” 

“... _ Who’s Bill Cipher?” _

Ford finally seemed to understand that Stan wasn’t not pulling his leg, and he finally put the dagger away, adjusting the crown on his head. He did it like it was nervous habit, the way he used to tug on his sleeves when they were kids. No sleeves to tug on, now, so he just did that, adjusted the crown and raised an eyebrow.

“Bill Cipher. The ruler of the multiverse.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d heard the word  _ multiverse-- _ he’d read it a lot on the papers around the house. But he still had no idea what it  _ actually _ meant. “Sorry Ford, don’t know what that is either.”

Ford looked dumbstruck, like he didn't even know how to explain this, but he was going to try. “Walk with me.” He said, and it almost sounded like a command, but Stan followed on his heels without bitching, trying not to trip over his incredibly elaborate train. “The multiverse,” He began once they were on the steadily cobbled path, “Is a collection of universes, dimensions, self-contained planes of existence. They have their own rules regarding space, time, matter, and energy. They are sprawling and infinite. You have a dimension--Ground Zero, we call it--as does every being in existence.” 

This sounded like the Ford he knew, excited to explain something sciency to him. The smile on his lips was genuine, not prideful, and he took comfort in it. “So, uh.” He asked a follow-up question, partly to continue those good terms, but partly because he really was curious. “If I came from Ground Zero, in that…portal, thing, what dimension are we in now?”

“The Fearamid is dimensionless.” Ford said, and that brought about 80 thousand more questions, the first being  _ How is that an answer,  _ but he asked the most reasonable one instead. “What’s…The Fearamid?”

“It’s our word for the manor.” Ford said, pointing up at the house they’d now arrived at; spires and towers and trellises aside, he supposed it  _ did _ look like a pyramid if you tilted your head the right way. “It’s where we do the ruling from.” Ford waved a hand and the back doors opened, seemingly on his command; once inside he clapped twice and his cape flew off his shoulders, folded itself neatly, and disappeared; Stan’s coat did the same, before he even had time to object, and by the time he looked over Ford was in a  _ different _ cape, shorter, with no train, black again, etched it with gold triangles.  _ Triangles. Like the ones in the house. _ “This is the one I wear inside.” Ford said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if having an indoor royal cape and an outdoor royal cape was a  _ thing _ people did. And speaking of that--

“Where  _ we _ do the ruling from? I thought you said Bill Cipher was the ruler of the multiverse.”

“Well, yes,  _ technically, _ ” Ford wrinkled his nose like he did when he was insulted, “I’m His valet.” He pronounced it  _ val-ette,  _ and Stan had  _ no _ idea what that meant, so he just nodded. “Though I also do the reaping, and--” He waved a hand again, and Stan half expected something magical to happen, but it was just Ford’s gesture of dismissal. “Well. Many of the “ruling” things, I suppose.” He made air-quotes.

“And you--live here, in this  _ castle?” _

“In the Fearamid, yes.”

“It’s just you?”

“Just Bill and I. And the servants, but--they’re invisible to the human eye, I don’t suppose you can see them.”

“....No. I can’t.”

“Right.” And Ford chuckled a little, and it sure as Hell annoyed him, because Ford was human too--or at least, once upon a time he was. And then Ford turned and leaned against one of the triangular-shaped prisms holding the arched ceiling up, and raised an eyebrow. “Stanley, what are you  _ doing  _ here?”

“I...I told you. I got your letter, ya’ asked me to come, I came.”

“And I told you, I don’t remember writing it.”

“Yeah, well--that’s weird on its own. But it’s still the reason I  _ came,  _ Ford.” There’s a pause. “Never mind what I’m doing here. What the Hell are  _ you _ doing here, Ford?”

“I told you. I’m ruling the Multiverse.”

“ _ Why? How?” _

“ _ How,  _ we decimated the old leaders.  _ Why,  _ because it’s where I belong.”

“Okay. Not gonna mention that first part. But—you belong  _ here?  _ Ruling the multiverse? Who—who made you think that?”

“Bill did.”

“Okay—whoever this  _ Bill  _ is, he told you you should be the leader of the  _ entire multiverse _ , and you—you  _ listened _ ?”

Ford faltered. For only a moment he faltered, stepping away from the pillar, and reached for his crown again, pushing it up in his curls. “Yes. You wouldn’t do the same?”

His eyes narrowed. “No. No, I wouldn’t. I belong in my own dimension, and so do you! You have friends, you have a  _ family,  _ you have whatever was in that house—

“I have Bill. That’s enough.”

“Is  _ Bill  _ worth more than I am?”

Ford faltered for longer this time. He averted his eyes, like he felt guilty. It was a look Ford wore well, and often; or at least, it was a look Ford  _ used  _ to wear well and often. But now it was back, and now he sighed, his hands falling to his sides. “No. No, not more than you. But—you don’t belong here, Stanley. Go home.”

“Go—go home?” He shook his head, looking hurt. “Now that I know all of this? We—how come none of us even know that you and this Bill are doing all of this?”

Ford smiled, proud, haughty once more, and studied his nails. It’s not a gesture Stan had ever seen before from Ford. It unnerved him. “Well. We don’t like to interfere, when there isn’t trouble. Less work for us. Less hassle.” 

“And…if there  _ was  _ trouble?”

“Well, we’d interfere.”

“ _ Interfere _ meaning ...?”

“Depends on how big the trouble is.”

He groaned softly, pressing a hand to his temple and shaking his head. This was making his brain hurt. “Ford, you’re being vague. Examples,  _ please.” _

“Well, if it was only one person finding out  _ too much,  _ I’d just dispose of them. I could erase their existence entirely, if they were  _ really _ meddling, but that  _ does _ get tedious—“

“Dispose of, meaning…”

“Oh, mercy killing, usually. Manhunting is entertaining and all, but it’s a lot of work. And I’m too  _ nice  _ for pointless torture, really.”

“You  _ kill  _ people for...finding out too much information?”

“Stanley.” Ford came closer, putting a hand on his shoulder, and Stan flinched, like he was worried that Ford could slip up and erase him from existence by mistake.

(It would be a mistake.)

“This is why you need to go home, Stanley. You’re not fit to rule, when it comes down to the  _ big  _ decisions. For instance, the overpopulation in the moonshine dimension? Getting  _ wildly  _ out of hand, Stanley—

“What are you doing about it?”

“Well, lately, systemic genocide, I’ve tried other altern—“

Stan held his hands up. He can’t believe his own ears. He feels like he’s going to be sick, actually. Somewhere in the back of his ears, he hears Ford mutter  _ so soft-hearted,  _ but there’s a pounding in his head and a swirling in his gut, and he needs it all to go somewhere, so he shouts.

“So. When you say— _ rule.  _ You mean  _ orchestrate “systemic genocide?”  _ He makes air quotes, because he has to, because there’s no way such a thing a  _ systemic genocide  _ exists, and there’s no way his  _ brother  _ is leading it.

“Stanley? Stanley.” Ford sounded concerned—concerned, for him, the same Ford who just told him he dealt with overpopulation in the multiverse he rules with genocide. “Stanley, you know I’d never let anything like that happen in Ground Zero.”

He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it and go home and forget any of this ever happened. But he couldn’t believe it. He remembered the way Ford was amused by his own blood, earlier in the garden. He wondered how many innocent people he had slaughtered. He wondered if their blood amused him too.

He can’t go home without Ford.

“It’s getting late.” Ford muttered, straightening up. “You should come up. Bill will be home soon. You can spend the night, but—Stanley, you need to go home in the morning. You can’t stay. You can’t see the rest of it, alright? It’s for your own good.”

_ The rest of it. _

“Do you torture people?”

“Stanley—“

“Do you hunt them down?”

“Stanley—“

“Do you scare them on purpose?”

_ “Stanley—“ _

_ “ _ _ Is it fun for you?” _

“ ** _Stan!”_** Ford looked like he’s about to cry, but he didn’t. He might’ve, actually, if something strange didn’t happen just then; Something flashed gold in his eyes, for just a moment, and he straightened up, shook his head, and returned to that resting face that was almost a sneer. 

“Come upstairs, Stanley. It’s time you met Bill.”


	3. im afraid youre never satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where our trigger warnings come into play. Graphic Violence, Possession, Pseudo-Self-Harm (Bill In Ford's Body); if any of this content may be triggering, back out now.

Ford had led Stan through a series of incredibly elaborate hallways, each more lavishly decorated than the last, and up an enormous spiral staircase, then through a few more hallways, to boot; they had finally stopped at a set of the largest doors he’d ever seen, gold and carved with ornate patterns (and guess what! More triangles!), and were about to go inside when Ford suddenly stopped short, like he’d heard something, and straightened up.

“Bill’s back.  _ Wait here.  _ Stay out of sight.” Stan stepped to the side, away from the trajectory of the doors, and Ford waved them open, disappearing behind them.

He shouldn’t listen in. He  _ shouldn’t,  _ but the room had an echo, and it was  _ so easy  _ to hear if he was close enough to the door, and—he did.

_ Bill?  _ He couldn’t get a read on Ford’s voice. It sounded at ease, steady, but also a bit timid; like they were friends, but Ford knew  _ Bill  _ could squash him like a fly if he so wanted.

There was something else, too. It was something that sounded a tiny bit like  _ reverence.  _ It was something Stan was definitely going to ignore.

_ Sixer!  _ And then Stan straightened, suddenly rigid. Not so much because of the voice (even though it was an  _ eerie  _ voice, melodic but somewhat haunting, unnerving in a way that echoed around the chamber and made the hair on his arms stand up), but because….. _ don’t call me Sixer,  _ Ford had said in the garden. Stan had thought Ford had just lost taste in the nickname, grown to despise it, _ maybe  _ even wanted to eschew old memories by refusing to use it.

What he  _ hadn’t  _ expected was the notion that he’d  _ given it away. _

_ Right on cue, IQ! What’s new? Any Moonshine updates? _

_ Um. Maybe later, Bill. Actually...we have guests. _

There was a pause. It might not have been that long, but it was long enough to make Stan uneasy.

_ ….Guests? _

_ Um. One guest, in particular. Stanley’s here. My brother. _

_ Sixer, you don’t  _ _ have  _ _ a brother! _

Another pause.

_ Um. Yes I do. We’ve talked about this. My twin brother. Stanley? _

_ ….Right.  _ (After yet another pause).  _ Well, maybe! Obviously, he wasn’t that important! Where is he? _

_ Just outside. _

_ No use leaving him waiting! _

Footsteps, then, and Stan shuffled back into place, trying to not let the  _ Sixer  _ thing get to him. Ford pushed open the doors and faced him; his face was level again, all the edges of kindness and care smoothed over into an expression of prideful haughtiness. The gold in his eyes was back. “Come in.” Then he vanished, seemingly into thin air.

A bit confused as to where he had gone, Stan followed into the main room, and--

Holy shit.

This was, by far, the singular nicest room he had ever been in. An ornate gold carpet etched in with similar patterns to the door and done with black lace trim ran its way down the center of the floor. Chandeliers flickered candlelight into the room, and so did the candelabras set against the walls. The windows were wide and arched, and through gold stained glass he could get a visual of the hills surrounding the castle. Past that, the room was mostly empty, except for a set of marble stairs leading up to the thrones themselves. And yes, they were actual, legit thrones, though he can’t say that surprised him much. Two of them, one perfect center and one to its right hand. He’d love to get a better look at both of them, because they looked incredibly ornate, but he didn’t suppose he’d get a chance to. In the right one sat Ford, legs crossed one over the other, chin in his palm, elbow on one of the armrests. He  _ did _ look like a king, and  _ God _ was it unnerving.

In the other one--

Ah. The triangles made a lot of sense, now.

“Uh. Hi.” That felt a little awkward, especially when Ford cleared his throat and glared him down. Maybe he should be kneeling, or something, but he didn’t, just shoved his hands in his pockets awkwardly--his jean pockets, this time, because his coat had disappeared to wherever Ford’s  _ outdoor cape  _ had gone. “I’m Stan. Stanley Pines.”

“ _ So Sixer has told me!”  _ That eerie voice responded, now in person, now with a figure to it (because  _ body  _ is a little too far)--he was actually pretty sure he’d seen a few images of this “Bill” around the old house, and this was an  _ almost _ exact likeness, except what was once a top hat was now a crown, a smaller and more ornate version of Ford’s.  _ “The name’s Bill Cipher, but you can call me your new lord and master for all eternity!” _

He was pretty sure that was supposed to be a joke, so he laughed; too bad neither of the other people in the room followed suit. Ford averted his eyes like he was embarrassed. “So I’ve, uh, heard.” Stan responded. “Sorry, this--Multiverse stuff is all a little new.”

_ “Yeah, no kidding! We can get caught up over dinner. I make a mean eyeball martini--corporeal forms are so fun! Coming, Sixer?” _

Every time Bill called his brother  _ Sixer,  _ it made his blood boil. Three eyes travelled to Ford, and he nodded, once; then, Bill was gone, and Ford stood, brushing off his robes as if they were getting dirty up there. “We’ll walk.” Ford said simply, leaving the room, which madessemi-sense, now that he’d seen that  _ teleportation _ was a thing his brother could do. They walked down more elaborate hallways, and Stan could only take so much  _ taking in the scenery  _ before he had to say something else, so he said the first thing he could think of, which, admittedly, wasn’t that good of a conversation starter.

“So. Bill.”

“Oh, He’s wonderful.” And perhaps this wasn’t such a bad conversation starter after all, because the more talking Ford did, the less he had to do. And it was obvious this was a conversation Ford had been  _ dying _ to have. “Really, Stanley, you don’t know the half of it. I’ll tell the full story over dinner, but--well. I’m quite humbled to be here with Him. I’m quite humbled He even thinks I’m fit to be here, really.” Ford’s language is equal parts endearing and unnerving--actually, no, it’s mostly unnerving. Ford rambles on a bit more, all  _ reverence  _ this and  _ worship the ground He walks on _ that, until they’re finally within the dining room. Another giant, luxurious room, with a roaring fireplace in one corner, another candlelit chandelier on the ceiling, and an exceedingly long table, mahogany color with some sort of gold leaf etched into it. Bill sat (floated?) at the head, and Ford on his right. Stan wasn’t sure where  _ he _ was supposed to sit, but Ford pulled out the chair next to him, and Stan took it.

Dinner was...eventful, but maybe not as eventful as he thought it would be. Despite the fact that this was probably the most well-fed he had been and was going to be in years, he wasn’t that hungry. Not like much of the attention was on him anyway--Ford rambled, as Ford tended to do once people were around the table. He talked about coming to Gravity Falls and he talked about Bill and he talked about the Multiverse and it was all a little surreal to him, in a way that seemed too good to be true. And he knew part of that was true (notably, the part where a tyrannical overthrow of the entire multiverse includes murder of innocents and “systemic genocide”), but something about Ford’s whole story seemed a bit ironed-over as well. Still, nothing could dissuade the smile on his face, the way he gestured amicably as he talked, the way the gleam in his eyes was all-natural. You also couldn’t deny that the food was  _ good,  _ and so were the so-dubbed “eyeball martinis”, that were apparently not made with actual eyeballs, though Bill did drink them  _ through _ his eyeball, which was another thing that was so weird he was just going to ignore it.

There were other things you couldn’t deny, too. The cold way Bill watched him watching Ford throughout dinner, as if worried he had competition. The way Ford would pause at bits of his story and tilt his head, as if there was something he’d forgotten, before picking up with his original fervor. The way he couldn’t help but wonder if the food was...made of people, or something (this one was probably a stretch, but he wasn’t dismissing the idea entirely). He didn’t eat much of it anyway, and before long the plates were cleared, by what once again looked like magic but might’ve just been those servants only he couldn’t see. Ford was the first to stand, stretching both arms above his head with a yawn and rubbing at his right eye. “Well, I’m turning in for the night.”

_ “Oh, don’t tell me you’re  _ _ sleeping  _ _ again!” _

Ford looked a little hurt--just a little. “I’m--I’m tired.”

_ “You know that’s not productive for me at all, Sixer!” _

And that made little to no sense--it wasn’t productive for  _ Bill _ if  _ Ford _ slept?--but he figured there was a lot with these two that he wasn’t getting, so he just stood to the side a bit awkwardly.  _ “Fine, go, go! Show Stanley to his room. Any room, I don’t care.” _

Ford did just that, showed Stanley to the nicest bedroom he had ever seen (that was a trend, today). The bed had four posters and the curtains were made of real satin and there was an entire wall of mirrors and  _ another _ fireplace, and Stan knew he had to leave  _ (with Ford, with Ford),  _ but in that moment, he was pretty sure he could’ve curled up on that bed and just stayed there forever. 

He didn’t let the thought overwhelm him, though. He changed into the nightclothes from his bag, finally relieved to have somewhere to put it down (though he did retrieve the brass knuckles and switchblade and shove them both in his jeans pocket, along with the pistol on his belt), and tried out the bed. It was nice. It was  _ too  _ nice, damnnit, and once again the thought of staying overwhelmed him, but he shoved it down, hoping it would be gone by the morning, and let his eyes shut.

It was only an hour or two later, he knew from looking at the clock on the mantle, when he was awoken by footsteps in the hallway. He knew what he  _ should’ve  _ done was ignore them (this castle had invisible servants, right?), but he didn’t, because once again his curiosity got the better of him. So he slowly crossed to the door, slowly pushed it open, slowly looked out into the hallway, before bravely (and slowly) stepping out to see who was out here.

It was Ford. Ford, who turned on a dime and glared daggers, flashing yellow, his way. But the look of malice on his face and the glint of gold in his eyes both faded when he realized who it was. His cape was removed, arms barren, smooth and delicate as an angel’s skin. But apart from that he hadn’t changed, his robes still present. His weapons probably were as well, Stan forced himself to remember, as much as he hated it. “Stanley.” Ford sighed, letting his tense posture fade. “What are you doing out here?”

“I heard  _ you. _ ” And, since that totally sounded suspicious--- “I wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

“Curious, curious.” Ford tsked, another sort of condescending gesture, condescending tone of voice. He tried not to let himself be irked by it too much; right now, his hope was on his own sheer determination on getting Ford out of here tomorrow. He’d drag him by the neck if he had to; he didn’t want to, but he was starting to fear it might come down to that, with the way he’d been acting. 

“Why are... _ you _ up?”

Ford suddenly looked away, emotion changing on a dime again, like he had something to be self-conscious about. “I, um.” He wasn’t wearing his crown (well, at least he didn’t sleep in  _ that _ ) and once again, no sleeves, so he laced his hands together and then relaced them, fidgeting like that as he spoke. “I’ve been having quite a hard time sleeping since I’ve come to the Fearamid. To the multiverse in general, actually. I’m not entirely sure why. I always slept so well, in the house, but--nowadays, I just can’t. It’s like my body doesn’t want to. I have no  _ reason _ not to, I just--lie awake for hours.” He shrugged a shoulder into the air, obviously frustrated by the notion. 

“Well, doesn’t bother me.” He thought Ford was maybe upset about bothering someone  _ else,  _ but he didn’t bring that up. “We can, like--walk, right? If you wanna walk?”

“Yes, alright.” Ford conceded, and they took off in the same direction Ford had been walking. “I’ve been pacing for--a while, actually. I came down three flights from the top floor.” 

_ To the same floor I was on.  _ Stan wondered if this was where he’d intended to stop. Probably not.

“So--Stanley. What have  _ you _ been up to for seventeen years?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He rolled his eyes at the perfectly arched ceiling.

“Well, I’m asking, aren’t I?”

“Yeah.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets again, running his fingers over the handle of the switchblade just to calm his nerves. “Well. Things haven’t been great, honestly. Just trying to get by day to day, y’know? I won’t bother you with the details.”

Ford’s expression furrowed, and he was silent for at least a minute. It was a very tense minute. It seemed to him like Ford wanted to  _ do  _ something about it, but…

“There’s nothin’ you can do anyway, Ford. Like you said, you belong here.” 

Okay, maybe that was sort of a dick move, but having Ford come back with him willingly  _ was _ the goal. “You can’t stay.” Muttered Ford, but he seemed like he was talking to himself. It seemed like he was trying to convince himself, not Stan. “You just…” But he trailed off, not finishing. Like he was losing the desire to finish. 

They’d reached the end of the hallway, and a set of white doors. The white was startling after getting so used to seeing gold and black everywhere, and the shining marble almost blinded him. “What’s...what’s in there?”

“The hall of memories. You can’t go in there.”

He looked down at the floor. “Great. Another place your idiot brother can’t go, huh?”

“No--No, Stanley, even  _ I _ can’t go in there. It’s strictly off-limits to anyone but Bill.”

He looked up, suddenly. This was new. This was  _ interesting.  _ “Why not? What do you guys keep in there?”

“Memories, when they need to be erased. They’re quite dangerous and unstable. I assume He wants to keep as few people in there as possible, as a safety precaution. It still is true that I can be…clumsy.”

“Alright.” He affirmed, nodding his way through it. He let it hang in the air a minute, debating whether or not he should open his mouth, before deciding  _ To hell with it. It’s now or never, Stan!  _ “Or.”

“...Or?”

“Have you considered that there may be...memories, that Bill is... _ hiding _ from you?”

Ford snorted, like it was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard. “Like whose, Stanley?”

“Like yours.”

The silence in the air was maddening. Thick as gravy. Ford just stared at the doors, his eyebrows furrowed. His words held certainty when he spoke again, but the tone of his voice didn’t. “That’s...preposterous, Stanley. If I had forgotten something, I’d remember that I’d forgotten, right?”

“You didn’t remember writing the letter.”

Another pause. “Well, the multiverse has...been troubling.”

“Tell me Ford.” He narrowed his eyebrows. “When you were in the house in Gravity Falls, who lived in the loft?”

“...Nobody did. I lived there alone.”

“There’s a bed up there. There’s a bed, and a lot of boxes filled with clothing, and paper, with someone else’s handwriting. Someone else was living up there, Ford. Don’t you think it’s a little odd that you don’t remember them?”

Ford stilled. “...No, the loft is--”

“I  _ saw _ it, Ford. There is blood all over the house. Coating every surface. I could point out every fucking unnerving thing I saw in there, but I wouldn’t know what to pick, since something tells me you wouldn’t remember a bit of it.”

Ford shook his head, but it was slow, considerate. Stan could tell he was genuinely starting to think about this, and he knew that this was his chance.

“Tell you what, Ford. I promise I’ll leave you alone in the morning if you go in there with me. We’ll have a quick look around. If there’s nothin’ there, that’s that. But...if we do find something of interest--you’ll want to have a little look at it, yeah?”

Ford nodded, slowly, but then shook his head, much more quickly. “Stanley, I couldn’t. If Bill found out, He’d--”

“Bill would never hurt you, Ford. You said so yourself.” He had, over dinner, and as much as Stan knew that wasn’t at all true, he knew where Ford’s loyalties laid.

“You’re right.” Ford said with a nod. “He wouldn’t. Besides--Bill has nothing to hide. We don’t keep secrets from eachother.”

He pushed open the door.

The room was white, pristine, and  _ sparkled, _ moonlight from the sunroof bouncing off every glass and marble surface. There were rows of glass containers, separated by giant pillars. Each container had something in it, something swirling and milky. “Memories.” Ford whispered, as if that wasn’t sort of obvious.

“They’re alphabetized.” Stan pointed out. “Let’s just--go on over to P, alright?”

So they did. They combed through the jars again and again and again. But where a  _ Pines  _ should be--after  _ Pike  _ and before  _ Pinfold-- _ there was nothing. Stan looked until his eyes crossed, but eventually, even he had to admit defeat. He shook his head, feeling utterly consumed. He’d staked all his hope on this one  _ stupid _ assumption, and he’d lost the gamble. Tomorrow, he would be leaving, and he’d never stop thinking about Ford, never stop missing him. He never even got to tell him he lo--

“Wait.”

Ford was standing at the very front of the room. At the front, there was an altar. On the altar, there was a box. And in the box, Ford was currently examining, there was a jar. A jar of memories. “They’re mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. I can feel it.” Ford’s body was shaking. His hands were trembling. “Stan, what--what did He  _ take _ from me? What did He  _ do?”  _

Stanely crossed the room to Ford, placing his hands over his brother’s shaking ones. “Ford, I’m--not sure. But something tells me it’s not going to be pretty.” He pursed his lips. “You need to see what’s in there, Ford. But I’ll be with you the whole time, I promise, an--”

Ford’s body was swaying back and forth. He looked like he was about to pass out.

“Ford? Ford!”

Shakily, Ford put the jar back on the altar. He grabbed Stanley’s sleeves, like when they were younger and he was about to be lost in a crowd. He looked terrified, but also very confused. No--not confused--drowsy.

“Stanley, I’m...I’m so tired.”

“All of a sudden? I thought you said you couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m--so tired, Stanley.” He sat on the stairs of the altar and pulled his knees to his chest, shaking. Stan said next to him, concerned, and Ford rested his head on his shoulder with a shaky sigh. “I could sleep right now--just stay here while I sleep, Stanley? Just for an hour. Wake me up after an hour and we’ll look in the jar. I need--I need to--”

He could barely get the words out, he was flagging so much. It was so  _ sudden, _ but Stan’s heart ached. “Yeah, okay Ford. I’ll be right here. Just try and get some sleep, okay?”

Ford nodded.

His eyes closed.

An hour passed.

An hour passed, and Ford stirred, right on cue. He covered his eyes with his hands, rubbing the sleep out of them. “Mmm…” He mumbled. “Well, Stanley, Pa was right about one thing.”

“Uh…. _ what?” _ Ford had crossed the room, his back to him, stretching his arms over his head before swinging them in front of him. He had no idea why Ford was talking about their father at a time like this. Maybe his memories were starting to come back already, or something?

Ford turned around.

“You really are the stupid twin.”

Stanley’s gut twisted; but it wasn’t because of his brother’s cruel words. It wasn’t because of the look on his face--that smile, like the one he’d seen in the garden, except worse, almost too wide for Ford’s slim face, almost psychotic. It wasn’t because of the way Ford had his dagger out again and was running his fingers across the blade, enough to give him tiny cuts in their pads, and it wasn’t even because of the way that was making him giggle.

It was his  _ eyes.  _ It was as if the gold in them had finally overtaken everything else, and they were slitted, cat-like, dazzlingly bright. “F-Ford?” He stammered, on his feet in an instant. His left hand, in his pocket, slipped the brass knuckles onto it.

“Guess again!”

He froze. “Bill.”

“Ding ding ding! Sixer never told you about our little  _ arrangement,  _ did he? Ford sleeps, I take over! And you’re in  _ big _ trouble now, Stanley.” He laughed, coming closer with the knife. It wasn’t a Ford-like laugh. They weren’t Ford-like words. But they were made using Ford’s vocal box, and hearing them was making his brain spin. He pulled out the knife of his own--not the gun, that would be idiotic _ ,  _ this was still Ford’s body. “You can’t beat me in a knife fight, Bill. Not any day. Especially not in Ford’s body.”

“Huh? Oh--Oh! Oh, you thought I was going to use this on  _ you?” _

Once again, he froze. It was deeper, this time. It chilled him to the bones and rooted him to the ground. “Bill--Bill, stop.”

Bill had no intent of stopping.

“I do like hearing you beg, Stanley, but--I think I’m gonna keep having my fun! I think you’re going to keep watching it!” He used Ford’s skin as a canvas as he talked, he used the floor tiles as a palette, and he painted his image in in scarlet, over and over again. Ford’s fingers were skilled at the art. Too skilled.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Of course!” Bill-Ford twirled the knife between his fingers, the blade moving quickly, elegantly, not nipping on any of his fingers as he did tricks with it--which, of course, was ironic, since both his arms were dripping crimson onto the tiles before. “Plenty of times! You saw the house! You read the letter! Too bad all of that is in--” He tapped the jar twice-- “Here, huh?” And too bad I can’t just break it. Sixer would get it  _ aaaaallllllll _ back, and that’s no good for me!”

“But--but you’re--” He waved a hand, because Bill was now unfastening the top of Ford’s robe, and he didn’t know how to put this gleeful act of mutilation into words. “He’s going to find out.”

“Oh, this?” Bill looked up from the triangles he was carving into Ford’s chest with a dramatic yawn. “I can heal this up in two seconds time!” 

A slight pause.

“If I wanted to, that is. Y’know, I’m thinking. You around has made Ford all soft in the heart! I’m not a huge fan, Stanley. I  _ could _ just kill you right now and have everything return to normal, but...well, we can’t have any more repeat incidents! Ford’s still got friends out here--that stupid scientist crush of his, for one--and I think my Sixer’s being a little…. _ dispensable,  _ wouldn’t you think?”

“What are you saying?”

“I think it’s in my better mind to just kill both of you, right now. I’ll take you out in Ford’s body, so you can have that  _ wonderful  _ image of your own brother killing you-” He pursed his lips-- “And the thought that he would probably still be alive if you never came--And then finish him off myself! Aaaafter I torture him, probbaly, because I think he’s deserved it, don’t you?”

Stan lunged.

It was probabaly a stupid idea, but it was probbaly also  _ surprising,  _ which is one thing he needed on his side. And Bill  _ did  _ seem shocked, stumbling back a bit as Stan managed to pin him to the ground and wrestle the dagger away from him, throwing it harshly across the floor tiles, where it cracked one of them. He struggled to get away, but it was obvious that physically, he was flagging. “Yeah.” Stanley spit, bitter. “Get your kicks off mutilating my brother’s body, you’re gonna have a hard time fighting someone in it.”

“You wouldn’t hurt Ford! I’ve hurt him enough!”

He raised his left fist, and the moonlight from the sunroof caught the brass knuckles. “I think if I knocked you out right now, you’d have a half-mind to leave his body.”

“Do you want to, though?” And the way Bill said it made Ford pause, for just a moment. “I mean, I can leave! I can return Ford’s body to the way it was before I  _ fixed it up _ for him. And then, I can let him make his own decision. But come on, Stanley. Your brother lives in a palace. Your brother rules the multiverse. What can  _ you  _ even  _ begin  _ to offer him that’ll make him want to follow you?”

“I’ll tell you what, Cipher.” Stan growled, pinning him more harshly onto the tile. “I  _ am _ taking him back with me, where he belongs, and we  _ are _ going to find you, and we are going to  _ destroy  _ you--”

“I’ll unleash  _ hell _ on your dimension! Are you going to let yourself be the cause of--”

“And to answer your earlier question.” His eyes narrowed. “I  _ love him.  _ And that’s more than you’ll ever give him.”

For a moment, Bill looked surprise--maybe even a little hurt. That was all he needed, of course, to punch him out swiftly, climbing off of his brother’s body as fast as possible to look at where he’d bruised his face.

“Shit.” He muttered. “Shit. Fuck.  _ Fuck!”  _ He lifted one of Ford’s arms, where it was still dripping blood onto the tile, and pulled his shirt off over his head, trying to wipe off some of the blood, to see how deeply he’d been cut. Under the blood, he could see now, there were more scars. More than had been made that night.

_ The way it was, before I fixed it up for him. _

And Stan was  _ about  _ to take a moment with that before Ford gasped and sat bolt upright, before wincing in pain and laying back down on the title. “What--” He said weakly, his voice sounding hoarse. He felt his arms and his chest, and studied the blood on his hands in fear. “What--who--”

“Hey, hey.” Stan pushed his hair back from his eyes, leaning over him with a frown. “I’m right here, Ford, I’m right here. How--how much do you remember?”

Ford shut his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. “Everything.” He whispered. “Oh my god. Everything.” He tried to reach for Stan, but his arms obviously hurt, so Stan lifted him into his arms for him, where he laid his head sideways against his heartbeat, breathing heavily.

“You came for me.” He whispered. “I went into the portal. I thought you--weren’t coming. I thought you hated me. I followed Fiddleford in--” His eyebrows furrowed for a moment, like he had something to think about, but then he kept going. “And then I--I--and then--”

He choked back a sob, and Stan ran his (now blood-covered, unfortunately) fingers through his hair. “Sh. It’s alright.”

“You should hate me, Stanley. The things I’ve done--I’m so sorry--”

“I don’t hate you.” He reassured, planting a kiss to his forehead. “I forgive you, I promise.” He looked up suddenly, taking in a sharp breath. “We have to get out of here.” He muttered.

“Oh God.” Ford choked back another sob. “Oh god, Bill--”

“Is  _ not  _ going to hurt you. I will walk to the ends of the multiverse so Bill doesn’t hurt you.”

“I know a spell--I need two people--you can--”

“We can work that out, I promise. We’re going to stop him, together. I promise.”

“I trust you.” Ford whispered, and Stan grabbed the discarded robe off the floor, wrapping it around him like a blanket. “We’ll get you all patched up, alright? Everything’s going to be alright. I’m here, now. I won’t leave again.”

Ford nodded, and Stan got onto his knees so he could lift him up, trying to make a mental map to the garden so they could hightail it. “Come on, Sixer, we’re going home.”

Ford stiffened, suddenly, and Stan remembered. “Sorry--should I not call you that, anymore?”

Ford wrapped his arms around his neck and laughed as Stan lifted him against his chest, and it was the sound he’d been missing for seventeen years. “Call me that again and again, Stanley. Every day. Forever and ever.”

They had a lot of work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Once again, I am humbled and honored that people are looking at my work. I'd really appreciate a comment, just to let me know what you thought, especially since this idea is so loose and self-devised. Tell me what you had for brunch today, I don't care.
> 
> As always, thanks a thousand.


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